


Screwed

by glacis



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's plan doesn't quite work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screwed

Screwed, by seeker.  Written for of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Draco pairing)

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Draco Malfoy was having a Very Bad Day.

A series of Very Bad Days, in fact.

It got off to a bad start at breakfast when he'd gotten an owl from Father bitching him out about his marks. So, Potter beat him in everything but Potions. Including Quidditch. It happened. His father needed to get over it. Draco had.

Really.

He scowled down at his textbook, not seeing a word. He simply had to find a way to deal with the Boy who was a Pain in the Arse.

He knew he'd bollixed it up, first by underestimating Potter (who wouldn't? He'd looked like a ragamuffin the first time Draco'd seen him) then by not getting Potter to come over to his side (who knew the snot would have such a thing for Weasley so quickly?), and finally by not devising a way to rid Hogwarts of the pest for good.

Which led him to try any number of schemes, all of which backfired, most of them spectacularly. Although getting himself turned into a ferret was by far the worst as far as he was concerned.

He'd seen a chance, a few nights before, to turn Scar-head into a raging queer and set him on the Weasel. The plan was to destroy their friendship and get Potter tossed out on his ear for conduct unbecoming a budding wizard. Not that being queer would do it, given the vast numbers of alternate sexualities found in the wizarding world. But doing a fellow student in the middle of a corridor in front of a teacher surely would qualify as a major black mark.

Wouldn't it figure, the way his plans had all gone balls-up around Potter, that the idiot would choose that moment to stumble over his own feet. So the spell went wide and smacked Weasel, just in time for Snape -- SNAPE -- to come out and catch his eye before Potter could straighten up again.

Leading to a rather athletic leap by Weasel over Potter up against Snape and a blow job that was still replaying in glorious technicolor in Draco's memory.

He was SO screwed.

He scowled as he stood at the sink in the workroom next to the Potions classroom and scrubbed pots.

Manually, like a bloody Muggle.

In detention.

For SNAPE.

Who knew he was hung like that? Draco smiled, unaware of doing so, and even hummed a little as he worked. Before he knew it, another Plan had formed.

If a wand was too unpredictable, he'd have to do it the old fashioned way. The way he'd learned at his mother's knee. The Slytherin way.

He'd poison the bastard.

The dose-Potter-with-aphrodisiac-so-he'll-disgrace-himself Plan was still viable. Only the delivery method needed work. Precision. Timing. Cunning. All of which Draco had in abundance, though one would never know it, the way Potter had of turning Draco's Plans on their heads and pissing on them.

His humming got darker and more gleeful as he carefully raided Snape's stores. He wouldn't do it in a shadowy corridor this time. No.

He'd do it where he would have *witnesses.* LOTS of witnesses. No one would be able to defend Potter when Draco Malfoy got through with him.

Making careful note of where each cauldron was stored in preparation for the next day's class, Draco meticulously ground, diced, minced and boiled until he had a dish-worth of pitch-like substance the exact same color as the cauldrons. Looking back over his shoulder one last time to ensure he was undetected, he delicately painted the goo along the inner walls of Potter's cauldron.

This ... this was going to be FUN.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Snape let himself into the classroom early the next morning, anxious, though he would never admit it, to escape the Great Hall. Avoiding the youngest Weasley's panicked look the last few days had been easy, but avoiding Dumbledore's weighty stare was much less so. He knew he'd have to come clean eventually, but he was still trying to come up with an explanation for why his defenses had been breached so quickly.

The thought struck him that it was all Ollivander's fault, for softening him up and leaving him off-balance. He shivered and locked the thought away in a dark corner of his mind. Wasn't going to think about it. Simply wasn't.

Checking young Malfoy's work absently, he noticed a crack in one of the cauldrons on the Slytherin table. Not bothering to fix it, leaving it for later, he chucked it in the corner and grabbed one from the Gryffindor table. Potter and Weasley could share.

A mental image popped into his head of Potter's dark head and Weasley's bright head bending over his supine body, and he bit off a curse.

It must be something in the air. Perhaps it was time to exorcise the dungeons. Maybe a succubus had been unleashed without anyone knowing.

It was a better explanation than admitting how aroused he still was by the last two times others had taken advantage of his body. In the past ten days.

He shook his head, sighing. Ten years without a nibble, then two in a fortnight. It was ridiculous.

The students began to clatter in, disrupting his thoughts. He gathered himself for yet another day trying to stuff knowlege into empty heads only to have it flow right back out again. Glaring at his seventh-years, he waited until the chatter died down and pointed at the board.

"Today, we try astringency potions. Again. Not alihotsy, Longbottom, altimun! It's simple enough. Try not to muck it up too badly."

He had no hope whatsoever that they would do aught else.

Especially Longbottom.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Draco paid little attention to his mixing and stirring. Astringency potions were tricky only in timing, not in ingrediant preparation, and tended to explode if things were added too soon, but that was the only problem with them. He could mix one in his sleep. Which was just as well given that he had one eye on Snape (ready to duck if his simmering professor came near) and one on Potter (bright with anticipation).

Consequently he didn't notice when the steam rising from his cauldron turned a delicate shade of robin's egg blue.

Unfortunately, for both of them, Snape did.

Gliding through the industrious students like a shark through shallow waters, Snape came up in front of the Slytherin table and stared down his nose at Draco. It wasn't an expression Draco was used to seeing and it unnerved him enough that he pulled his eye from Potter and put both on Snape. And didn't blink.

"What precisely are you brewing there, young man?" Snape asked with silky disapproval.

Confused, Draco looked down at his potion. Which was turning royal blue.

Snape leaned forward. Sniffed. His eyes came up and locked on Draco. "Ashwinder?" he muttered under his breath, looking as confused as Draco felt.

"Oh, shite!" Draco suddenly yelped. He didn't know how it happened, but he'd got Potter's cauldron. Moving on instinct, he grabbed it and made to toss it in the sink.

At precisely the same moment Snape reached forward to take his stirring rod and give it a whirl.

The cauldron tipped. Snape jumped back. Draco lost his balance. The cauldron landed upside-down.

On Draco's head.

Luckily he gotten very far in his preparations. There wasn't much liquid in the cauldron.

Unluckily ... there was enough.

Snape stepped forward to peer under the table where Draco had fallen. Draco shook off the cauldron, growled under his breath, swiped viscous blue fluid from his eyes, and took one look at Snape.

Who suddenly manifested every quality known to an Unbeatable Shag.

Draco didn't hesitate, for he who hesitated didn't get laid. He reached out, grabbed Snape's gown, and yanked.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Snape's hands flew up in the air and he gave a startled "Awk!" as he was pulled under the table. Then he couldn't say anything at all, as Draco's tongue was far enough down his throat to qualify as a choking hazard. Blue-streaked hands bunched his robe up under his armpits and pulled his pants down around his ankles, and for the third time in less than two weeks Snape found himself ravished before he quite knew what was happening.

He was vaguely aware of shuffling going on in front of the table, and more shuffling going on in front of him, but he was too busy trying to pry Draco's face away from his own to bother with it. Until bare skin hit bare skin and he yelped again.

No one heard it, muffled as it was by Draco's mouth sealed over his.

The world narrowed to the action under the table. Draco's hands held Snape's shoulders down, his tongue excavated his tonsils, his hips clamped over his, and his arse slid down over Snape's rampant prick (when had that happened? he though muzzily). Then the Slytherin Seeker was riding his head of house like a four-star broom, and Snape could do no more than hang on and enjoy it.

Trying to get his bearings, his hands landed on bony hips, and his fingers curled around and gripped hard. Snape managed to untangle his lips from Draco's and took a deep breath preparatory to asking him what the HELL the little idiot thought he was doing assaulting him like that, when Draco ... shivered. All over.

Warm thin messy come sprayed over Snape's bare stomach, and the tight little arse clamped around his prick tightened until he was nearly certain it would pinch him right off. Then Draco did a shimmy on his lap that professionals would envy.

That was all it took. Snape shot before he was ready, not that he'd *been* ready for ANY of it. Draco arched back as Snape thrust up, the last of his orgasm leaving him wide open for Snape's final frenzy. They writhed together lazily for a long moment before a semblance of sanity crept in.

Draco collapsed against his chest. Looked up at him with big grey eyes, and smirked. His lip trembled. His arse tightened around Snape's softening prick and Snape tried hard not to moan. Loudly.

"Oh, for god's sake, get off me," he snarled gently. "Another try at Potter gone bust, I take it?"

Slithering off him with a move eerily echoing their house mascot, Draco nodded but had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.

"How many times to I have to tell you," Snape hissed, "not in my classroom?"

Draco opened his mouth. Shut it again. Blushed.

Snape shook his head, tidied his clothes, yanked his robes back where they belonged and painfully rolled over. On hands and knees, he tried to crawl out from under the table.

The ghost of a caress down the crease of his arse, hot even through the robes, caused him to throw a glare over his shoulder that was hot enough to wilt even Draco Malfoy. Snape managed not to smirk until he was facing forward again and the pesky brat couldn't see.

Then he knocked rudely at the wall of Crabbe and Goyle's combined legs, guarding the table and blocking the rest of the class' view of the proceedings. Nice of them, but then, they were used to playing guard dog for young Malfoy.

It was the first time they'd had to do it for Snape, of course.

Fighting a blush he refused to allow to bloom, he crawled with as much grace as possible out from under the table. Shaking off Goyle's helpful ham-sized hand, he glared imperiously around the classroom.

All the students other than young Weasley and the Potter brat were concentrating so intensely on their cauldrons it was a wonder their potions, or the glop passing for their potions, didn't spontaneously combust. Snape looked evenly at Potter, who looked past him at Malfoy and almost -- not quite -- smirked. Then Snape looked at Weasley.

Then looked away from him quickly, because the hungry look in the boy's blue eyes was untenable. Sweeping a glare round the assembled students once more, he pronounced slowly, "A potion went awry. That's all anyone need know. If I discover that any one of you is telling tales out of class about this unfortunate incident ..." he allowed the pause to grow, cutting it expertly when it was at its weightiest, "lost points will be the least of your worries," he finished with a purr that defined 'threat.'

A last glance round showed him several terrified, one aroused and one calculating sets of eyes. Potter he was used to; Weasley he could handle; everyone else was properly cowed. With a swirl of his gown, he stalked back to the front of the room and glared like a hawk at the lot of them.

One thing he'd learned from decades as a turncoat Death Eater.

Balls and a healthy dose of intimidation could carry one through anything.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Draco crawled out the other side of the table as Snape was putting the fear of God, or Snape's wrath which was worse, into his fellow students. His knees were shaking and he was light-headed, but it was going to be all right. Father need never know that he'd failed again. It would be his secret.

He looked around. The rest of the students were shooting him little glances when Snape looked the other direction. Draco gulped.

His and the rest of the class of 1998.

He was so screwed.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

END


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